


Living Dead Youth

by PlumTea



Series: Horror A La Carte [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Body Horror, Career Ending Injuries, Future Fic, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/pseuds/PlumTea
Summary: It's been ten years since Iwaizumi's best friend died.Someone is picking off the Olympic team, one by one.





	Living Dead Youth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candyharlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/gifts).



> Day 4: SOMEONE WILL DIE! OF FUN!!  
> (right)  
> [x] in the [y] with [z] / **a murder mystery** / blunt force vs sharp edge vs ??? / **a disappearance / shadows in the doorway / the unknown** / x-files theme playing in the background  
> For [Iwaoi Horror Week!](https://iwaoi-horror-week.tumblr.com/)

He brings flowers to Oikawa’s funeral.

He wants to cry until his bones turn to water, but he’s already drained looking at a photo on the altar of someone too bold for pictures. A hundred flowers surround Oikawa now, but none of them could possibly match up to him. Nothing could.

Oikawa’s family lets him stay to help pick out the bones from the ashes. He loved Oikawa just as much as they did, and he was family too. Oikawa's hyoid is wide between his chopsticks, and too bright compared to the rest of the burned bones.

Bones in a urn, ashes in a grave.

Iwaizumi watches the sky and goes back to an empty home.

* * *

 

Coach Masayoshi blows his shrill whistle. Everyone begins shuffling off the court, slapping backs in congratulations and wiping sweat off with their jerseys. It's loud, and everyone is still chipper after a long practice.

Every day for five months, Iwaizumi has tried to be the best assistant coach. It's a little daunting standing next to someone like Masayoshi, but it's all stuff he's done before, so the advice comes easy. He's memorized every centimeter of the gym and watches replays of old practices for hours after work. The national team is a careful patchwork, all brimming with confidence and talent. There are some familiar faces, but it still takes Iwaizumi some time to get used to the small things, like Nakahara's Kansai accent.

A ball comes rolling by his feet, and he feels the familiar weight in his hands. Iwaizumi couldn't bring himself to keep playing, but he couldn't step away from such an important  part of his life. One of the ball boys calls out, and he tosses it back.

Kageyama shuffles up to him, a towel around his head, and asks for some pointers. His eyes are bright and steely as Iwaizumi rattles off notes from his clipboard.

The court isn't his place anymore, but he still has a place.

"Iwaizumi!" Mashiki slings a bag over his shoulder and stretches his arms. "Want to go out for drinks tonight? Nagisa found a sweet place. Deals on beer and yakitori!"

The last time he ate out with the team, they ended up eating udon in bowls bigger than their heads. "Count me in."

"I bet I can eat more tsukune than you."

Iwaizumi fixes a hard glare on Mashiki. "You think so, huh?"

"I know I can handle you."

"Just try it."

"1000 yen on Iwaizumi!" Ooka calls from the back of the locker room.

"Oh, screw you!"

Ushijima looks up from his phone. "I'm going to have the Saturday Special."

"Hey big guy, stop looking at the menu and bet on one of us already."

"Kageyama!" Nagisa calls as Kageyama pulls his jacket on. "You coming to dinner with us?"

Kageyama freezes, and digs his hands into his pockets. "No, I should sleep. Should be well rested by the next morning."

Nakahara shrugs. “Well, Sakusa and Kiryu aren’t coming either. Next time, I guess."

Dinner is loud and they make a big ruckus in the bar. Iwaizumi eats as much as he drinks, and sends Mashiki away vowing for victory next time. Above the rim of his glass, he wonders if he responded to Matsukawa’s text from last week. Laughing with the team is nice, but he feels like he’s holding his glass with with three fingers.

Flickering neon signs hum as he trudges home for the night. The last train of the day is packed with sleepy businessmen, foggy from late-night drinking. The sky is a dark canvas, smudged with city smog, as Iwaizumi wanders half-asleep.

* * *

 

It’s about half past nine, and Kageyama still hasn’t shown up for morning practice.

If it was anyone else, Iwaizumi wouldn’t be too concerned, except Kageyama’s learned to be eerily early over the years. Somehow he realized that if he’s the first one to get the key and set up, he can get in all the practice that he wants. Coach had a real fright the first time, but afterward it’s become somewhat of a joke.

Iwaizumi hasn’t changed his phone number since middle school. He likes to think that Kageyama would have at least tried calling him if he wasn’t feeling well.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and as soon as he sees Kageyama's number, he gets a speech ready.

"Is this Iwaizumi?" comes a rough voice that isn't Kageyama's.

"Yes?"

"Oh, good. This is Officer Aizawa from the Metropolitan Police Department. We found your friend. He's being transferred to Nakano General Hospital in--" Iwaizumi's hand goes limp, and he just barely manages to catch his phone in time. "I'll be right there."

* * *

 

Hospitals help the sick, but he hates their false comfort. They morph into a different beast when he comes here for medical supplies instead of bad news.

A piercing scream scratches his ears as soon as he opens the door. "Go away!" Kageyama howls from behind the curtain. "Get out!"

“Kageyama, it’s Iwaizumi!”

Kageyama's silhouette remains screwed up tight. “Prove it!”

“One time that former-number-10 snuck into the locker rooms to scare you. You ended up knocking him out, and we had to carry him to the hospital.”

After a moment, Kageyama fumbles in reaching for the curtain, and pulls it back. His fingers are bunched up inside the fabric, like he doesn't know where the edges are.

People have always told Iwaizumi that he's brave. Going beetle-hunting, he'd climb up trees so high the leaves blocked the ground to snag the sleeping beetles at the top. On the court, he wasn't afraid to say what was necessary. As a friend, if there was trouble, he'd hop in a taxi and run over no matter how late or inconvenient it was.

It takes all his strength to keep the shriek in his throat down.

A strip of cloth is wound across Kageyama's face, shielding two sunken holes where his eyes should be.

One deep breath. Another. Another. Kageyama hears his hesitation and slinks back towards the fan of pillows behind his back. “I brought you some milk,” Iwaizumi manages to get out.

“Thanks.” Even his voice sounds brittle. Kageyama holds out his hands, a little off from where Iwaizumi is standing. Gently, Iwaizumi places the bottle of milk in Kageyama's hands, and waits until his fingers close around it.

“Everything’s so dark," Kageyama says, as he peels the foil off. "What time is it?"

"It's 10:23."

"Oh. I thought it was still night." Kageyama pulls his knees up under the covers, and drums his fingers on the milk bottle. He doesn't look twenty-eight, he looks like he's still in his Kitagawa Daiichi uniform, bony knees knocking as his idol's hand hovers centimeters away from his face.

His career’s ruined. There’s no way he can adjust his playstyle in just a year.

"Kageyama." Iwaizumi knows he doesn't have a gentle voice, but he makes it as soft as he can. "Who did this to you?"

"I--I don't know."

"When did it happen? Last night?"

"I left the gym and walked home." He cringes as he speaks, and the bottle shakes in his hands. "It was really late. Nobody really lives on my block, not really, but I thought I heard someone behind me. But nobody was there. And then---" His lips turn pure white. “I thought— that when we fought, we settled our differences. Wasn’t everything okay back then? I thought...”

Iwaizumi wants nothing more than to grab Kageyama and ask him who, but the bottle falls out of Kageyama's hands and splashes onto the floor. The bandages over his eyes are wet as he pulls the sheets over himself, and his moan turns into a wail.

A nurse comes hurrying in at the commotion, kneeling by Kageyama's side, saying cushy and comforting things. She frowns at Iwaizumi, and shoos him out of the room.

The hallway bounces Kageyama's sobs back and forth, back and forth.

* * *

 

"There goes our starting setter. What are we going to do? I mean, we have Ooka, but..."

"I'm not the same, I know that. Just, fuck, who would do that to Kageyama? I mean, he's kind of a weird kid, but who did he piss off? Yakuza?"

"No yakuza does _that._ "

"I will bring Kageyama a get-well card later today. We should all sign it."

"You're a real stand-up guy, Ushijima. But he can't exactly... appreciate a card anymore."

Iwaizumi can't listen to this anymore. "Go do six laps around the gym, all of you!"

* * *

 

Outside, Iwaizumi feels a chill.

He usually thinks of Oikawa from time to time, but now it’s all that’s in his head. Oikawa would say something like “Serves him right!” but sneak out to visit Kageyama later with a basket of gifts.

He thinks of Kageyama, sitting in the hospital with no eyes, and of Oikawa, limp at the bottom of steep stairs. Protege and master, both ruined forever.

The road home floats in the darkness.

* * *

 

His ringtone wakes him up, just as his clock strikes four. The caller ID reads Coach Masayoshi, but he never calls this early.

“Iwaizumi, get to St. Luke’s right now.”

His mouth is filled with sleep, and all Iwaizumi can do is mouth silently around half-formed words.

“It's Ushijima. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Iwaizumi bolts up, scrambling around for his shoes. “Is he okay?”

“He’s alive, but— just come over.”

* * *

 

"And you're sure you didn't see who attacked you?"

"I didn't."

"Well, there's nothing we can do right now. We'll be back tomorrow for more follow up questions. Rest up."

"Thank you."

A grizzled policeman with a grim face pushes past Iwaizumi into the hall.

Ushijima manages to look dignified, even in a hospital robe. His posture is perfect, but the cast around his left arm makes him look lopsided. A cocoon of plaster, sealing off his left arm completely. Casts aren’t foreign to Iwaizumi, but he’s never seen one that large.

"You doing alright?"

"I am alive." His deep voice has the faintest tremor.

The X-Rays by the bedside are visible, and nausea creeps up Iwaizumi's throat. What should be solid bone is now splinters. Someone would’ve had to take a hammer and smash it into Ushijima's arm over and over and over again.

“Ushijima—”

“They said they might have to amputate it. My hand doesn’t look much like a hand anymore.”

Iwaizumi's lungs are crushed under a heavy weight. “At least sound upset about it!”

“I’m still,” Ushijima pauses, “processing.”

Two members of the team, gone in two days. Iwaizumi finds a chair and sinks into it. He's not sure what to say and he's not sure what to do. Masayoshi is outside making frantic calls, and he's in here, numb-tongued and useless.

"Coach says that this is sabotage. That someone is trying to ruin the Olympic team."

"That's how it seems, I guess." Iwaizumi's not sure how else to respond.

Something doesn't make sense. Neither Kageyama or Ushijima are bright in terms of social skills, but they don't need social skills to fend someone off.

"You seem uncertain."

"Something's not right. I mean, that's your good left arm. You wouldn't just let someone destroy your arm."

Ushijima's expression is unreadable, and Iwaizumi feels irritation itching at the back of his neck. Even if their childhood rivalry has long since passed, Ushijima isn't an easy person to understand. Finally, he says, "You heard my conversation with the police."

Iwaizumi feels his face heat up. "A little bit."

"Please close the door."

It's a reflex to grumble that he isn't a servant, but Ushijima’s in no condition to do it himself. Iwaizumi quietly shuts the door, and pulls his chair closer to the bed.

“I lied.”

"You-- you what?"

"I lied."

"You... lied." He didn't think Ushijima _could_ lie.

"Yes. It was dark, but I saw who attacked me. I saw Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi forgets he's at the hospital. It's like he's at the bottom of the sea, far away from the sun, in a pocket of crushing warmth. Searing water burns his lungs and bubbles up into his throat.

“Oikawa’s dead.”

“Yes. He is.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Ushijima.” He's in a different hospital, his knees going weak when the doctor delivered the news. Holding Oikawa’s hand, feeling a bit of faint warmth before he goes cold. “If this is a joke— you should know better. You can’t joke around, not about this. Not about him.”

“I’m serious.”

“He’s dead!” Iwaizumi yells, and he’s twenty again, lying down on the mattress in their shared flat and realizing that he’ll never hear Oikawa calling him a space heater and snuggling into his shoulder for warmth at night. "He's dead--" No matter how much he wished that he wasn't, nothing would ever bring the dead back to life. "--and he's never coming back."

"It's upsetting, but I know what I saw."

"He's not gone yesterday," Iwaizumi feels fire boiling in his stomach. "He's ten years gone. Someone doesn't start walking around after being _ten years gone_."

Ushijima gives him a long, somber look. "When you were young, did you go clean the neighborhood miniature shrines with your parents?"

Iwaizumi stares, trying to find the joke he missed. But Ushijima keeps waiting, and he has to remind himself that Ushijima doesn't know how to bluff. "Not really."

“My grandmother used to make it her errand, and she'd bring me along. When she cleaned, she used to tell me about the different kinds of spirits. I never liked the stories, but I listened." Ushijima closes his eyes for a moment, like he's swallowing a sigh. "I forgot about it until now. She’d say that sometimes— when a ghost dies with regrets or resentment, it can change. Oikawa was a strong man, determined and driven. In death, he must be—”

“Stop,” Iwaizumi’s voice cracks.

For once, Ushijima listens.

Iwaizumi withers, crumbling into the chair. The frame hurts his back, and he's more ashes than skin. "A ghost."

"An onryo, yes."

He wants to laugh, but someone's scooped out his guts. "This isn't a joke."

"No."

He hates that it's Ushijima telling him this because he has no choice but to believe. Ushijima doesn't play tricks, and Ushijima doesn't exaggerate.

"Onryo are vengeful spirits. They only remember their hatred in life, and in death, they make good on their bitterness. Death twists their emotions and turns them into grudges."

Kageyama, Oikawa's annoying kouhai, who followed after his mentor with sparkling eyes. Ushijima, the insurmountable wall, with his merciless left arm that tore through all of Seijou's defenses. Iwaizumi becomes a brewing storm the more he thinks-- of Oikawa turning his back to Kageyama after Seijou's loss, of Oikawa sneaking out to watch Karasuno fight against Shiratorizawa, of Oikawa proudly saying in that absurd dramatic way of his that university is a time for new ties--

“I swear,” Iwaizumi’s voice rises, “he’s throwing a tantrum. A tantrum, like some toddler! I’m going to knock some sense into that stupid idiot!”

“No. You can’t.”

“You think I can’t? I knew that moron my entire life. And he needs a good punch to the face if this is how he’s acting out!”

Ushijima is frowning. “Iwaizumi,” he says, firm, “that’s no longer Oikawa.”

“But you said—”

“Even if that was part of him before, it's nothing but malice now. What attacked me wasn’t the man we both knew.”

"Doesn't matter. If he forgot, then I'll beat him up until he remembers.”

Ushijima's expression dims, and Iwaizumi wonders if he's ever seen Ushijima get angry before. "Are you going to go uselessly fight a dead man?"

Iwaizumi's windpipe thins until it's no wider than a straw.

"Onryo can't be exorcised. They will stay there forever, hating. It's not something you can reason with."

How he wants to snarl and tell Ushijima to mind his own damn business because this is now between him and Oikawa. It’s like he’s in high school again, being talked down to by a blissfully ignorant Ushijima, telling him what’s best. Except this time, it’s not just volleyball. And he hates to say it, but Ushijima knows more than he does. Those odds aren't very strong.

“Then I’ll be the first.”

“…I see. You’ll end up going anyway.”

“Yeah. Someone’s got to talk sense into him.”

Ushijima stretches out his right hand, as if offering a handshake. "Onryo have to expand their territory. Victim to victim is usually how it goes."

"Did you give Kageyama the card?"

"Yes."

"So much for kindness being repaid."

In the fluorescent light, Ushijima looks like he's stayed awake for too long. "Iwaizumi, we may not have always have been on best terms, but you are a fine coach."

“Don’t talk like it’s the last time you'll ever see me.”

“Yes, it is,” Ushijima says, and grabs his arm.

* * *

 

Some nights Iwaizumi wakes up aching all over, missing his phantom limb.

Oikawa had already charted out which professional teams he’d want to try out for, and what exactly he’d have to do to make it into the starting lineup at university. He’d bought five textbooks to strengthen his English for future interviews. Together they’d set out in the pouring rain to buy fresh kneepads after Oikawa had a burst of inspiration and stumbled back into the flat, drenched and laughing. He keeps them all in a box now, tucked carefully away in the bottom of his closet.

His college team was coming up with nicknames for Iwaizumi, and one of them suggested Iwa-chan, and he’s never cut someone off so fast. If he hears it too many times, he’ll forget how Oikawa whined it when he got huffy, or shouted it excitedly across the hall.

He tried dating other people, he tried loving other people, but as nice as they were, they weren’t Oikawa. Nobody could ever be Oikawa. After a while, he stopped looking.

Oikawa is the most important person in his life, still.

* * *

 

It wasn’t unusual for Oikawa to crawl into his bedroom when they still lived next to each other. Sometimes he needs to retrieve some clothes he forgot in the closet, sometimes he wanted Iwaizumi’s lips to be the first thing he tasted in the morning.

When they moved in together, they were far too tired to unpack everything, so they shoved the mattress onto the floor and made a makeshift bed with a spread of egg crate and sheets. The night was cold, and Oikawa clung to Iwaizumi the whole time. In the morning, Iwaizumi woke up first with Oikawa still snug at his side. He thought of how his man sleeping next to him was everything he ever adored, a partner to boast about, the other half of his soul, and all he ever wanted.

He’s back in that makeshift bed again, ten years back, watching Oikawa’s lips flutter around his breath. Oikawa’s hair looks so soft spread out on the pillowcase, and he’s sleeping so peacefully, so comfortably, and Iwaizumi knows that this was a dream.

If only he didn’t have to wake up, if only he could spend just a little bit longer—

Thin curtains sway in the evening air, and his Mothra clock reads three in the morning. He’s thirty again, with scars on his hands and old uniforms tucked away in the closet. It isn’t cold enough to be winter, but the temperature in his room seems lower than the week before.

Human-shaped static stands in the corner of the room, where the moonlight can’t touch it.

As soon as he sees it, he feels like he’s drunk, like the shapes in his room aren’t the ones he sees every day. It bleeds into the wall like it’s a patch of overgrown mold, and becomes a smudge against the shadows.

He’d know Oikawa anywhere.

“Shittykawa, why are you just standing there?”

Oikawa doesn’t respond. Iwaizumi doesn’t see a mouth, or hands, or much of anything besides Oikawa’s perfectly clear eyes. Iwaizumi thought ghosts looked how they died, so he expected to see a twisted neck, but Oikawa stands there like he’s waiting for the train in the morning. His eyes are the only thing that move, and fix on him, unblinking.

Terror coils in Iwaizumi’s stomach, but annoyance beats it out. “You really fucked up this time.”

Oikawa isn’t meant to be silent. He’s supposed to be loud in his complaints and huffy and annoying. His TV’s off, but there’s still a low hum of static drifting across his skin.

“Give back Kageyama’s eyes and apologize to Ushiwaka. You’re destroying the Olympic team.”

“Wasn’t enough.” The static becomes more and more intolerable. Oikawa billows up like smoke, still human-shaped but uncomfortably contorted. His words scratch at Iwaizumi’s ears, and he wants to clap his hands over them to stop the claws from raking across his eardrums. “I was never good enough. I tried and tried and tried and tried and I wasn’t even allowed to keep trying—”

It was an accident. One day, Oikawa slipped and fell down a flight of stone stairs. No suicide, no foul play, just bad luck that turned his future into an abyss.

“You were enough for me, idiot. Did you ever think you weren’t?”

Silence, then a soft, “Iwa-chan,” and Iwaizumi slips out that sigh of relief.

It’s been ten years. All that time, Oikawa’s been stuck somewhere, slowly expanding his circle, stewing in boiling regrets. The static has calmed down, and Oikawa’s condensed himself back into that corner again.

“Feel any better after destroying your rivals?”

“It was supposed to be different.”

“Yeah.” His life’s been alright, but Oikawa wasn’t there for it. Nothing ever really works out the way it should.

“—I’m tired,” comes the crackle of dead leaves. “It’s too cold. I miss you.”

“You should’ve looked for me, then.” He leans back, and opens his arms. “Come here.”

Now there’s the smell of soil covered with layers of old leaves. Scented shampoo that’s been long since discontinued. Iwaizumi inhales, and stretches his arms around the shadows. Icy needles dig deep into his arms, his chest, his neck, until they pierce bone, deep enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“Warm.”

“I’m here. I’ll stay with you as long as you want.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also, North did some fantastic art for this, right [here!](https://twitter.com/nrothly/status/924043331906220033) It fits the mood perfectly, check it out!


End file.
